


Ninety-nine percent awesome

by Anathema Device (notowned)



Series: Ghosts [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-15 20:29:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13621107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notowned/pseuds/Anathema%20Device
Summary: It appears Aramis had anamazinggrandmother. Which explains a lot.A side ficlet to "Le Fantôme des Mousquetaires", which starts before and finishes slightly after the events of that story





	Ninety-nine percent awesome

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thimblerig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/gifts).



> The title refers to this rather annoying saying, "99% of a child's awesomeness comes from their grandmother".
> 
> Thimblerig was both inspiration and encouragement for this story. She is in no way responsible for the title. Or any mistakes :)

**1884, Vatican City**

“Ah, it’s _signore_ d’Herblay, is it not?”

Aramis reluctantly abandoned his surveillance and turned smoothly to his black-clad questioner with a smile. His mind quickly spat out the identify—Bishop Luca Sestini, papal nuncio to France.

“Indeed it is, your excellency. What a memory you have.” He shook the nuncio’s offered hand.

“A good memory is essential for a diplomat. Earthly princes and presidents take a strong dislike to one if the names of their grandchildren or wives escapes one’s memory.”

“I can imagine. Have you come to admire the [Bernini](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tomb_of_Pope_Alexander_VII)?”

“Not especially. I always like to visit the basilica when I’m back in Rome.”

“I’m sure.” Out of the corner of his eye, Aramis saw the woman move along, but remain close by. He didn’t want to lose her again. “Is there something I can do for you, your excellency?”

“No, nothing. I was simply surprised to see you here. Wasn’t it, hmmm, yes, London when I spied you last? You must be a great traveller.”

“I am, your excellency,” Aramis said, still smiling. “My father passed away earlier this year, so I have certain responsibilities regarding his business.”

“My condolences, _signore_.” Sestini crossed himself. “May he rest in peace.”

“Thank you, your excellency. He reached a good age, and I thank God every day for allowing me to have him for so long.”

“Pious and correct,” Sestini intoned. “You like to combine work with pleasure? You obviously love beauty.”

Too late, Aramis realised Sestini had noticed him tracking the woman’s movements. “Beauty is one of God’s greatest gifts, my grandmother always told me. Incredible woman. She lived to be ninety. Drank a glass of brandy every day, and smoked a pipe. Used to crack walnuts with her knees. She told me she could have married the heirs to three different thrones when she was younger, but didn’t think a crown would suit her at all. Grandfather sold fine fabrics. She said he wasn’t much to talk about in bed, but he kept her dressed like an empress all the time they were married.”

The nuncio coughed hard to clear his throat. “Er, that’s fascinating, _signore,_ ” he gasped out. “But sometimes beauty masks a hidden ugliness, you realise.”

Aramis smiled politely. “The way a tomb does?”

Sestini glanced at the baroque majesty of Alexander VII’s tomb, and avoided the semantic trap. He leaned in closer, his voice lowered. “I was thinking more of a corrupt woman. That woman there. The one with the black lace mantilla and green dress. Beautiful, is she not? I see you have noticed her.”

“Only because she’s standing in front of what I’m looking at.”

“That woman is very dangerous, _signore_ ,” Sestini hissed. “She is rumoured to be a _particular_ friend of a very powerful cardinal.”

Aramis nodded. “Hardly surprising, is it? In my admittedly limited experience, cardinals have many friends. They are so often charming. Like most bishops.” He made a little bow.

Sestini frowned at the compliment. “This cardinal is an important man, _signore_. I speak of the [Primate of The Gauls](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Primate_of_the_Gauls).”

“Oh. I haven’t met him. I spend so little time in Paris, you see. People do speak well of him, though.”

“He is a jealous man, and someone not to be crossed.”

“I’m sure. Most people don’t like to be crossed. And a cardinal, such a busy man. I am always polite to churchmen, your excellency. You do such difficult work for the church.”

“I am trying to _warn_ you, _signore.”_

Aramis gave him a vacuous smile and scratched his jaw. “Sorry, you’ve lost me, your excellency. Warn me about what?”

“That woman!”

He opened his eyes wide in apparent confusion. “But I don’t know that woman. Is she likely to pick my pocket? I hope not. One hears such stories in Rome, sadly.”

Sestini made a delicate sound like a tiny kettle boiling. “Very well, _signore_ d’Herblay. Have it your way.”

“Thank you. It’s such a pleasure to meet you again, your excellency.”

Sestini stalked off. Aramis strolled away from the tomb, careful to keep the woman in the corner of his eye. Not a hardship, certainly. She was easy on the eye, with her glossy black hair, compelling green eyes, and fine figure.

She didn’t seem to have noticed the conversation, which was a miracle considering Sestini’s dramatics. For a few moments there, Aramis was sure the nuncio was going to sabotage the assignment.

Now, to see whom she was meeting.

*****************

**1890, Paris. The Garrison Opera House**

“Madame de Bourbon, pardon the interruption. I must speak to you urgently.”

She looked up from her work and smiled. “Of course, Aramis. Please have a seat. Would you like some tea?”

“Thank you, no,” he said, taking a seat. “It’s about these ‘accidents’. I’ve learned they are not so accidental after all.” He passed the note over to the company’s owner.

She put a lorgnette up to her eyes and read carefully, then laid the glasses down. “Well. And from whom has this come?”

“You may know him better as the ‘Ghost’.”

“Oh, nonsense. There are no such things as ghosts, and if they did, they wouldn’t write notes.”

“Quite so. I mean that the one known as the ghost, is the work of the author of this note. He is quite real, and we believe, a true friend to Sylvie.”

“You don’t know his name? This letter appears to be libellous, unless it’s true. Is it?”

Aramis nodded. “It fits what we know. Many of the ‘accidents’ can be nothing but deliberate acts. Whether it’s Catherine herself, or her supporters, it matters not.”

“I can’t sack her on the strength of an anonymous note.”

“Of course not. But you need guards. I, Porthos, d’Artagnan, have been doing our best, but it’s not enough. We can’t cover all the entrances to places like the dressing rooms.”

She pursed her pretty lips, and sat back in her chair, regarding him with her blue crystal eyes. “I’ll arrange it. Though I wonder why you brought the message, instead of someone actually part of the company. You seem to have made yourself extraordinarily useful for someone who is merely Porthos’s friend.” She smiled as she spoke, to take out the sting. “How did you learn so many skills, _Monsieur_ d’Herblay?”

“My paternal grandmother, may she rest in peace, thought a gentleman should be useful as well as decorative,” he said with an answering smile. “She taught me to sew, how to make brandy, and the best way to approach a pretty woman or a handsome man. She was even-handed that way. Never pass up an opportunity for love, she told me. Or to make love, whichever’s on offer.”

Madame blushed and looked down at her desk as she tried to hide a smile. “I see.”

“And I’ve known Sylvie the longest of all of you. I’m very fond of her, and of other members of your company.”

“Indeed. Well. Thank you for bringing this to me. I’ll see to hiring guards, and if you think there’s anything else we could be doing, do let me know. As for the ghost...he means us no harm?”

Aramis turned serious. “I can’t speak for Madame de Garouville or Maria, but for the rest of you, I’m certain he only wants you to succeed.”

“We’ll do our best. Thank you, Aramis.”

He bowed and left. He found Constance in her workroom, and passed on Madame’s comments. “Oh good,” she said, sagging with relief. “That’ll be a true comfort. But you and Porthos will still keep watch, won’t you?”

“Of course. Guards are all very well, but when it comes to people I’m fond of, I prefer to take a personal interest.”

“You said you had some soldiering experience? Were you in the army?”

“Goodness, no,” he said, putting his hand over his heart. “I meant I have a little experience guarding people. My grandmother was still lively at ninety, you know—died falling off her roof mending the shingles—and as soon as I was tall enough to be useful, I was her bodyguard and footman and general dogsbody. She carried a gun in her handbag and a stiletto in her bun, but she insisted I learn how to fight dirty, and to shoot and use the sword better than most young gentlemen do. Once, we were waylaid by two ruffians, and while I knocked one fellow down, she tripped the other and sat on his face to suffocate him. Killed him too. She told the police officer, ‘The first and last thing he ever saw was the same.’”

Constance choked out a giggle. “Aramis!”

“She _was_ a bit of a wit. One day, I must tell you about the time she decided to impart all the wisdom she had to offer on how to please a woman in bed. This was at my cousin’s wedding. The guests were quite fascinated. Most educational.”

She held her stomach, laughing so hard. “No wonder you’re so unshockable.”

“Yes, indeed. Now, what would you like me to do now? I’m at your disposal for the rest of the day.”

*****************

**1890, Paris. The Garrison Opera House**

“Where did you learn about wires and bombs and guns?” d’Artagnan asked as Aramis concentrated on tracing the first wire back to the shotgun pointed at Sylvie’s head. Finding it, Aramis delicately eased the tension on the wire, and lifted the loop off the trigger. One down. He tried not to think about the bundles of dynamite less than a metre away, or whether Grimaud had bothered to use fresh explosive or had had this stuff in storage waiting for a chance to use it. [If it was old enough](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dynamite), all the care in the world with the wires wouldn’t stop them being blown to hell if the dynamite was accidentally bumped or knocked over. Or shot, or set on fire. Aramis did not like dynamite at _all_.

“I’m surprised you don’t know such things," he said. “Aren’t you a country boy? You never set a rabbit trap?”

“We don’t blow up rabbits in Gascony.”

“Could you please stop talking about blowing things up?” Sylvie said through gritted teeth. D’Artagnan was carefully undoing the knots of the ropes holding her immobile in the chair. The need for haste pressed down on them all.

“Sorry,” d’Artagnan said. “You didn’t answer my question, Aramis.”

“Just a _little_ bit occupied,” Aramis said, disconnecting the second trap. The third wire linked to another wire, and then another two, leading to a pair of pistols aimed at the explosives. Grimaud _really_ wanted them all dead.

“Sorry.”

“D’Artagnan, for God’s sake. Stop distracting him while he’s trying to save all our lives.” Sylvie was tetchy. Aramis couldn’t blame her.

“How’s your head, darling? And your breathing? Are you dizzy?” Grimaud had put a cloth over her mouth to knock her out, which meant either ether or chloroform. Neither of which was much fun.

“I’m all right. I could do with some water. And getting away from the _bomb_.”

“Working as fast as I can. D’Artagnan, how are you doing?”

“Last knot now. You?”

“Give me a few minutes. Two minutes,” he corrected, seeing Sylvie’s expression. “To answer your question, d’Artagnan, my grandmother.”

“Eh?”

“My grandmother taught me about gun traps.”

“She did _not_ ,” Sylvie said, distracted as Aramis intended.

“She did. She was very beautiful in her youth—and she was still lovely when she passed away at the age of ninety—and she had a bit of a problem with gentlemen callers who were a bit _persistent_ , shall we say.”

“Tell me about it,” Sylvie said, her mouth turned down.

“Well, then you’ll appreciate her solution. She rigged up two shotguns near her window. The first fired salt at about the position of the man’s...er...jewels. The second, if the fellow didn’t take the hint, would take his head clean off. Her father offered to cut down the rose trellis the unwanted callers would use to climb up. She told him not to.”

He removed the last wire he could see, and began a careful search for any he might have missed.

“Why?” Sylvie asked.

“All clear,” d’Artagnan said.

“Same here. Right, _mademoiselle de mon coeur_ , time for you to go, now.” Aramis helped her to stand and quickly checked she had no other injuries save the chafing at her wrists. “We’ll need the army to take care of the explosives. D’Artagnan, take the lamp and the gun, help _monsieur_ , and get him out of the building.”

“In one piece, and alive,” Sylvie said sternly. “Don’t you dare leave him behind.”

“Of course not. Good luck,” d’Artagnan said, and quickly went down the stairs.

That left Sylvie and Aramis to go up by the light of what was coming from the stairs to the ground level, so he kept her steady and guided her carefully, because he wasn’t at all sure she wouldn’t faint on him.

Upstairs was apparent mayhem, but he realised that Constance and Porthos were clearing the building and the rush of people was much more orderly than it first seemed. “Was there a bomb?” Porthos called.

“Yes. Big enough to bring the building down. Get everyone well away from the building, and send for the army. We can’t deal with this.”

His lover nodded, and Aramis more or less carried Sylvie out under his arm, so swiftly did he remove them from danger. She clung to him and didn’t protest the manhandling.

Out on the street, amongst a throng of worried people along with some nosy onlookers standing on the other side of the road, he made her sit so he could make sure her breathing was all right.

“Why?” she asked when he was done.

“Why what, _ma petite_?”

“Why did your grandmother not want to cut the trellis down?” Her trivial question belied the worry in her eyes as she stared back at the opera house.

“They’ll be quite safe, I’m sure of it,” he said. She turned to him. “My grandmother said that she wanted to leave it because the little screams as they fell off the trellis were so delightful. She was a bloodthirsty old girl in some ways.”

“Sounds it. Aramis, what if Grimaud kills him?”

“Won’t happen,” he said firmly. “Your friend knows what he’s about. Once d’Artagnan tells him you’re safe, he’ll be out here so fast, he’ll leave a trail of sparks.”

She giggled, but it turned into a sob. Aramis held her tight and comforted her, hoping his little fantasy would prove true. He very much wanted to meet her ghost properly, and learn the story behind his strange behaviour.

The ghost was clever. But Grimaud was _insane_.

*****************

**1890, Paris. Jardin du Luxembourg**

“And that’s when she pulled the chicken from under her skirts, and said ‘there’s your proof!’”

Sylvie and Constance laughed so hard they were literally crying. Porthos’s grin looked ready to break his face, and d’Artagnan’s sunny smile could light up a windowless basement. Athos nodded, his lips twitching in amusement, but he looked at Aramis as if there was something he wanted to say. Aramis cocked his head to invite him to speak.

“Your grandmother was a woman of many talents.”

“That she was.”

Athos nodded again. Aramis had the uneasy sensation that Athos hadn’t said what was really on his mind.

Later that afternoon, the ladies had walked on with Porthos and d’Artagnan as their companions, leaving Aramis with Athos at his side as they strolled through the gardens. “I haven’t lived all my life in an attic, you realise,” Athos murmured, apropos of nothing in particular.

“You astonish me, _monsieur_. Though I imagine you spent a lot of time in trees when you were younger, yes? Away from those unkind children and unfeeling adults? My grandmother always said—”

“Aramis.”

“Yes?”

“I’ve seen more of the world than you imagine.”

“I would never suggest otherwise, _chéri._ ”

“I’m sure your grandmother was a formidable lady, my friend. I’m also certain she didn’t teach you how to defuse bombs or carry out discreet enquiries about the nobility, or handle criminals.”

Aramis’s breath caught, though he remembered to smile. “No, she did not. I taught myself those things.”

“I’m sure the government was grateful for your skills. It would have made you an excellent spy.”

Aramis’s steps faltered a little, but he carried on, still smiling insouciantly. “I’m sure they would have done, had I been one.”

“Aramis.”

Athos looked at him directly. Now he no longer wore a mask, his penetrating gaze was a force to be reckoned with.

“I’m not sure what you’re insinuating, Athos.”

Athos walked on for a little way before saying, “Did I ever tell you that de Tréville was still useful to the government? Not in any physical capacity, but as an advisor, sometimes as a middle man, as a refuge more than once. He had several agents who were regular visitors. You remind me of them.”

“You realise that, if what you imply is true, to talk of such things would be quite unsafe. Even lethal.”

Athos nodded. “I do. Hence the grandmother, I imagine. Did she even exist?”

Aramis pursed his lips. “In a philosophical sense, you might say.”

“Ah.”

“Are you going to reveal my fanciful tales as falsehoods?”

Athos shook his head, smiling a little. “No. I appreciate a good performance as much as the next man, and I’m sure there’s truth in there somewhere. Are you still employed?”

“I made my intention to pursue other activities known. Should an urgent need arise, I might be called upon. In a national emergency, we all have our part to play.”

“I understand. Sylvie has no idea?”

Sylvie, like her father, had always known Aramis as someone who flitted in and out of their lives like a butterfly. No explanation was needed for an idle dandy’s carefree behaviour, after all. “No. Please don’t tell her. She cherishes the idea of me as a member of the idle rich who need to be encouraged to do good deeds. Don’t spoil her fun.”

“I would not do that. Are you in danger from anyone?”

“I don’t believe so. Do not romanticise me, my friend. The people I may or may not have worked for are important. I am not.”

Athos raised an eyebrow, then gestured to their dear friends ahead of them. “I am one of a multitude who would vehemently disagree with that statement.”

“Thank you. You are just as highly regarded.”

“Should you find yourself troubled by something from your past occupation, you will ask for help.”

It wasn’t phrased as a question and Aramis wasn’t stupid enough to pretend he didn’t understand the offer. “You and Porthos would be the first names on my lips, I swear on the souls of my very real mother and father. But for now, shall we join our friends?”

Athos nodded, and Aramis linked arms with him. He was reminded again that an agile mind was a sword which could cut in both directions. Thankfully, Athos only ever used his weapon for good.

*****************

**1890, Paris. Aramis’s apartment, later that same day.**

“So, your grandmother. You made her up, didn’t you?”

Aramis sighed and rolled onto his back. “I’m losing my touch.”

Porthos leaned over him and licked his neck. “Dunno about that.”

Aramis batted him away. “I’m not talking about that, dear man. You and Athos are too clever for your own good.”

“Yeah? He’s pretty smart.”

“So are you.”

“So, you did make her up.”

“I definitely had a grandmother, my darling Porthos. Two of them.”

“Any of them smoke a pipe or fall off a roof at ninety?”

“Not _those_ grandmothers specifically. But certainly, _a_ grandmother did.”

Porthos poked him in the chest. “Mind telling me why you’ve been feeding bullshit to us?”

“Not bullshit as such. It’s all true. Ish.”

“Ish,” his lover said with all the considerable scorn at his disposal. “Why?”

“Because some of my skills were acquired in a less than gentlemanly manner.”

“You’re a criminal?”

Aramis pouted. “My dear heart, how can you say such a thing?”

“I’ve known some decent thieves.”

“I am _not_ a thief. I acquired useful information which may be important to certain highly placed individuals.”

Porthos frowned. “A spy?”

“Do you have to make it sound like you just said ‘murderer’?”

“You were a spy? Really?”

“Was a spy. _Was_. Sort of. Glorified errand boy, in truth. I was never in harm’s way, not like you.”

“Hmmm.” The sound rumbled through his chest like distant thunder. “‘Splains a lot. For our side, right?”

“Always. I am _French_ , _mon petit_.”

Porthos nodded then hauled Aramis on top of him and took his time positioning just how he liked it. Aramis, who adored being manhandled by a man so much stronger than him, grew hard again. “You have something you’d like me to do, hmmm?” he asked, nibbling at Porthos’s beard.

“Yeah. I’d like you to tell me about your real grandmothers.”

Aramis groaned, then grinned to himself as his body wobbled, perched on top of his laughing lover’s broad and beautiful chest.


End file.
